Tuesday, January 18th
Ronan
One step forward, two steps back. Isn’t that how it always goes?
It’s been a confusing, unsettling few days that started with Cat not answering her phone last Sunday. I dutifully called my dad after lunch, then tried to reach Cat. She didn’t answer. I gave it a few minutes, then tried again. Still nothing. I left her a message, but when I hadn’t heard from her thirty minutes later and began feeling irrationally anxious after our abbreviated phone call the week before—I’m obviously going insane—I decided to use my remaining time to call my best friend.
Although talking with Shane doesn’t calm my highly strung brain quite like Cat’s voice, I felt overwhelming relief when he answered. It was short-lived, though, when I asked him if he had any idea where Cat might be. After some hemming and hawing, he told me he thought she might be at Vada’s because, as he put it, “some shit went down” between Vada and my brother. It took some more frustrating prodding before Shane finally spilled the damn news and informed me with a deep, heavy sigh that Steve had broken things off with Vada.
I was speechless. Things had seemed great between Vada and Steve when I was home. The guilt took me into a stranglehold when Shane began to tell me about the steep decline of Steve and Vada’s relationship after my departure almost three months ago.
Shane did his best to calm me, which made me feel even shittier. In the end, it’s my bullshit that’s messing with their lives. It had been my sincere hope that my absence would give everyone room to breathe, to move on, to live their lives without me weighing them down while I tried to piece myself back together. The fact that my brother and closest friends are suffering douses me like a bucket of ice water.
If I thought my regular Tuesday therapy session today would provide me with an opportunity to work through the mess of nameless emotions clogging up my head, I was sorely mistaken.
We’re in the middle of calving season and my grandfather, Thomas, Elias, and I have spent the majority of the morning taking stock of the new calves, the health of the mothers and babies, if the newborns are nursing okay, and all the things that come with new life on the ranch.
My grandfather dutifully reminded me, at just after eleven-thirty, that it was time for me to return to the house so I could wash up, scarf down the lunch my grandma had prepared, and be in front of my laptop in time for my two-hour appointment with Doctor Seivert.
Since my slow emergence from the deep, dark depression I fell into a few months ago, my grandparents have been vigilant about me making it to every session, even when I try to conveniently forget about it, and so I’m properly fed and up in my room logging on to the private video conference at exactly noon.
I know today’s session will be different than normal. Last Thursday Doctor Seivert asked my permission for my dad to join us today, assuring me that the decision was solely up to me.
“Yeah, it’s fine. Whatever,” I said without any pushback. It was the end of our session, I was tired and ready to call it a day.
“Hi Ronan,” Doctor Seivert says joyfully the moment I connect. Her hair is in a loose bun and she’s wearing a black silk blouse and glasses with a clear frame. She always looks perfectly put together yet never comes across as stuffy or cold. She doesn’t appear to be sitting at her desk, but rather in one of her comfortable, light-tan upholstery chairs. “How are you?” It’s always her first question.
“Fine,” I say like I do every time. It’s a pre-programmed response and a hard habit to break because I was never allowed to be anything but fine growing up.
She’s obviously unconvinced, but rather than gingerly steering our conversation in a direction that would get me to open up, she clears her throat. “Alright, well, Ronan, you obviously know that I have your dad here with me today.” She smiles, then gets off her chair, taking her tablet with her. When she sits back down, my dad comes into view.
“Hey bud,” he says, smiling widely. His face is scruffy, a deep shadow darkening his chin and cheeks like he hasn’t shaved in a week, but his hair is freshly trimmed, the brown of it a visually pleasing contrast to the light-gray crew neck sweater he’s wearing. He looks relaxed and happy.
“Hi Dad!” Even though this makes me ache for my own bed, the four walls of my room in New York, my friends, and Cat, getting to see him—a visual representation of home—is still comforting as hell.
Doctor Seivert appears to hand him the tablet, giving us a minute to talk face to face.
“I love seeing your face, bud,” he says, his brown eyes warm.
“It’s really good to see you, too. You look happy.”
“Yeah, being home and not traveling so much has been good. It’s been calm.”
Yeah, I bet things have been calm. After all, I’m not there to fuck things up. Except, I did fuck things up for my brother and Vada.
“But we miss you, Ran,” he says. “How are you doing, buddy?”
I crease my brow. “Dad, did you really go to Doctor Seivert’s office just to ask me how I’ve been? I call you every week and tell you how I am. There’s obviously a reason for your ‘visit,’” I say, making air quotes.
Doctor Seivert comes into view. “Well, Ronan, your dad and I had a chat before you logged on, and there’s something he wanted to discuss with you. We wanted to wait until I felt you were, perhaps, in a better place to receive the information. I know this is something your dad has been wanting to talk to you about for a little while. I’ve been really pleased with your progress, so I invited your dad here today to let you two talk in a controlled environment.” God, it sounds so damn clinical. “Please go ahead, Mr. Soult,” she says, as she places the tablet onto some kind of table or similar platform in front of her.
“Ran, I really just… whew, I don’t really know where to start, I guess,” my dad says, running his hand through his dark hair.
“Maybe just say it,” I say, not at all sure what to expect.
“Okay, well, you obviously know that Penny and I have been together a while now,” he says uncomfortably.
“Yeah.”
“And, I mean, I used to be in Virginia a lot and… I’d see her almost every day.” A look of chagrin passes over his strong features. We’ve never really had a chance to talk about what went down after we moved back from Montana, though I understand that my dad started seeing Penny while my mom, Steve, and I still lived on the ranch about three years ago, and that he moved us back to New York so he could be closer to Virginia—to Penny—to carry on his affair. I also know that on the day my mother almost beat me to death, my dad was on his way to pack his things and leave to be with Penny for good, only to walk in on the EMTs trying to bring me back to life after my heart had stopped beating.
“Uh-huh.” My voice is monotone.
“So, we’ve been seeing each other on the weekends since… since I came home full time. She mostly comes here to stay with me and Stevie. I do travel down there once in a while, but I don’t really want to leave your brother too much,” he says. “Anyway, I think we’re at a point where we’d like to have a more permanent arrangement, and I wanted to see how you’d feel about her moving in with us,” he says, then falls silent, observing me through the screen.
We stay quiet for a few moments while I attempt to collect my thoughts.
“Ronan?” Doctor Seivert finally asks.
“Dad, I…” I trail off, needing a moment to sort through the onslaught of emotions.
I divert my eyes from the screen, trying to visualize what it would be like to have a stranger live with us, for my dad’s girlfriend to sleep in the bedroom that had been my mom’s—my lifelong abuser’s—bedroom. I decide that it’s really not up to me what happens.
“It’s your house, Dad,” I finally say. “I don’t know that I get to have any kind of say in this.” Honestly, my feelings are all over the place, and this feels like the right answer to avoid all of them.
“Of course, you do,” he says vehemently. “It’s your home, too! It’s your home more than it is even mine with all the damn time I’ve spent away from you and your brother. I’m not going to just waltz into your space and lay down the damn law, Ran. Look, you’ve been through a lot; I know this is a big change, and if you’re not okay with this, then I’ll figure out something else.”
“How does Steve feel about it?” My brother’s input is important to me, especially considering the situation he currently finds himself in. I’m not the only one in pain, flailing, reeling.
“He’s fine with it. He’s mostly worried about you.”
“Right. Because I’m the broken one, and I could fall apart at any second,” I mutter ruefully.
“It’s not that,” my dad says. “Ran, you’ve been through hell. I know that. I don’t yet fully understand the extent of it, but I’m getting there, trust me. I’ve seen…” He trails off. I wonder what he’s talking about, but he quickly changes direction. “The last thing I want to do is throw a wrench in your recovery. You’re processing a shit ton right now; everything you’ve known has changed, and Penny moving in is going to require more adjustment. I know you’re strong as hell, but I also don’t need to burden you unnecessarily.”
“Everyone around me has had to adjust, too, though. Everyone has had to change in some way, and it honestly weighs so heavily on me. I feel so fucking guilty that Steve had to postpone going to Boston and about his breakup with Vada,” I say, noting my dad’s expression changing at the realization that I know about Steve’s breakup. “I feel guilty that you had to make changes to your job, and that Cat is hurting…” I sigh, frowning as I recall all the damn sacrifices people have had to make in light of my inability to just stay the fucking course and withstand my mother until I graduated. No one would have ever been the wiser had I just… I don’t know.
“You have no reason to feel guilty or ashamed, Ronan,” Doctor Seivert says. This has been a constant theme in our therapy sessions, and even though I try to change my thoughts, they’re really fucking stubborn.
“Yeah, I know. That’s what you keep telling me,” I grunt.
“It’s true, bud,” my dad says. “Look, I’d obviously love for Penny to move in, but I don’t want to put more onto your shoulders.”
“Dad, do you love her?”
He squares his shoulders. “Yes, I do.”
“And she makes you happy?”
“She makes me extremely happy, yeah.”
“Does it feel like things are just a little more bearable when you’re with her?”
“Yeah, it really does,” he sighs.
I nod. “That’s how I feel about Cat.”
Both my dad and Doctor Seivert meet my statement with a smile.
“Pretty sure she feels the same about you,” my dad says, making my heart skip a beat. Then it constricts with the memory that I didn’t get to talk to her on Sunday, that things feel completely sideways.
“It’s fine, Dad. I’m fine with Penny moving in. Wait, does she have kids?”
“No kids.”
I nod once. “Honestly, do what makes you happy.”
It’s truly how I feel. I want nothing more than for the people around me to be happy. I know how much everyone has had to adjust because of me, how much everyone has had to deal with, and especially the people who are closest to me. My mother was right—I’m not good enough.
***
I shut my laptop a little too forcefully after my conversation with my dad and Doctor Seivert, feeling more on edge today than I have these past couple of weeks.
When I finally trudge down the stairs, ready to resume my ranch duties, my grandfather takes one look at my face and suggests I take the truck to town for a few errands.
I don’t have to think twice, gladly taking him up on the offer to escape the house, the ranch, and my own head for a little while.
In town, I stop at John’s tack supply store to pick up some feed, as well as the small grocery store to stock up on some essentials for my grandmother. Then I pop into the hardware store for some materials Thomas asked for to begin the repairs on the barn roof after the blizzard two days ago dumped feet of snow. The heavy white blanket caused part of the roof to cave in, making three of the stalls unusable. Luckily no animals were hurt.
“Holy shit, Ronan!” a woman’s voice calls out as I make my way across the large dirt parking lot in front of the hardware store and to my truck. I turn to see Reagan—the thirty-five-year-old daughter of Sterling—leaning against the side of the building. She pushes off the wall and drops her gleaming cigarette in a puddle of dirty-looking snowy sludge where it extinguishes with a quick sizzle before she walks toward me.
“How’s it going?” I ask her as she meets up with me at my truck. I dump the materials I just acquired on the large bed.
“Better now that I ran into you.”
I raise my brows at her.
“You’re freaking heaven-sent right now,” she says in a huff.
“Why, what’s up?” I ask suspiciously. I haven’t seen Reagan in years, though by her lack of surprise at seeing me, she was obviously aware I was back in Montana. She probably heard it from her dad or whoever else is talking about my return for some odd reason.
“Follow me.” She motions for me to follow and starts marching toward Sterling’s. I hesitate, confused, then shrug internally and begin walking behind her. Once she opens the front door and I step into the dim bar, it’s immediately obvious why Reagan was so happy to see me.
Miranda is sitting at the counter, her short legs dangling off the tall bar stool as she props up her head on her elbows, her hands under her chin. One look at her and I can tell she’s in no condition to drive herself home. In fact, I’m not even sure she could walk out of here right now.
Most everyone in the small town an hour away from my grandparents’ ranch knows that Miranda and I were close growing up. I got lectured repeatedly about my friendship with Miranda whenever word of yet another instance of Miranda running away or getting herself in trouble made its way to my grandmother or mom.
“Oh no,” I mutter.
Reagan nods, making a face. “Yep. She’s been like this all afternoon. She got here as soon as we opened and, to be honest, I’m pretty sure she had been drinking even before she got here, because she hasn’t had that much here,” Reagan says. “And I don’t know Randi to be a lightweight. Anyway, I tried getting ahold of her dad, but he’s not answering his phone. And she won’t let me take her home. Absolutely refuses.” Reagan shrugs and walks back around the bar.
“I was just going to let her sober up here,” Sterling says from behind the counter, his voice a lazy drawl. “But it’s obviously not ideal. She looks like she needs to sleep this off. No way she can drive today.”
I take a few steps toward Miranda and tap her on her shoulder. “Hey Randi,” I say cautiously.
She blinks her blue eyes at me. “Rony,” she exclaims joyfully, and tries to climb off her bar stool but ends up free-falling into me.
My hands snap out to steady her. “Jesus, what the hell, Randi.” She’s completely fucked up. “How much did you have to drink?”
“I don’t know, like two beers,” she lulls. It’s pretty obvious she had way more than two beers.
“Right, seems plausible.” I pull her closer to prevent her knees from giving out. Her eyes are almost completely shut, and she feels like a wet bag of sand in my arms. “Come on, I’ll take you home.”
She resists me. “I don’t have a home,” she says, or at least it’s what I think she says; her speech is so slurred I have a hard time understanding her.
“What?”
“My dad kicked me out.” Her head bobs forward on her shoulders as if she has lost all muscle strength.
“When?” I try to move her arm over my shoulder and around my neck so I have a better hold on her, but she’s too damn tiny.
“Two nights ago,” she says, making no effort to stand unassisted. If I let go of her, she’d fall straight to the ground.
I frown at her statement and at how difficult it is to keep her small frame upright. She has the same stature as Cat—delicate, petite—except that Cat is quite a bit taller and reaches my shoulders easily. I’d have no issue slinging Cat’s arm over my shoulder to provide her with adequate support.
“Where have you been sleeping?” I ask as I contemplate what to do with Miranda. I can’t leave her here like this.
“In my truck. Remember when we used to do that, Rony?” she says, trying to sound flirty but failing miserably in her inebriated state.
“Yep, and I remember how uncomfortable it was, too,” I say, slowly steering her toward the door. The soles of her boots drag across the floor with each half-hearted step she takes.
“Oh, whatever. I know you loved it. What are you doing?” she asks when I finally just decide to scoop Miranda into my arms and carry her to my truck.
“I’m taking you to the ranch,” I say and kick the door open with my right foot, throwing an apologetic glance at Sterling. He just waves me off, grateful to be rid of Miranda for the time being.
“Your grandma won’t like that one bit,” Miranda muses, her head resting against my chest, her right arm hanging by her side.
“She’ll live,” I say as I carry her across the dirt parking lot. “She wouldn’t be happy with me if she found out I let your tiny ass sleep in the freaking truck, either.”
“Hey, I have a nice ass,” she says, making me chuckle. “What are you going to do with me at your place?” she asks suggestively.
“I’m going to put you to bed so you can sleep off your two beers.” I stop in front of my truck, trying to figure out how to unlock it and get Miranda inside it without having to set her down and risk her falling.
“That sounds nice. Are you going to have your way with me, Rony?” she asks with a sad attempt at wiggling her eyebrows. She sounds as though she’s about to fall asleep.
“Definitely not.” I fumble for my keys and finally manage to unlock the doors. Somehow I’m able to pull open the back driver’s-side door and heave Miranda inside the cabin. I try to get her in a seated position, but she slumps to her right and half lies, half sits with her cheek pressed against the cool leather seat.
“Lame. Such a bummer that you’re so in love with your girlfriend. You and I used to have great sex. Such a beautiful, big…” She trails off. It’s probably for the best.
I shove the door shut and climb into the driver’s seat before turning on the ignition. I turn and check on Miranda, who’s already passed out, then shift the truck into drive and maneuver it out of the dirt parking lot and onto the road.
***
When I finally pull up to my grandparents’ house an hour later, my grandmother is outside sweeping the front porch, eyeing me suspiciously. I usually park the truck by the barn and walk the fifty yards back to the house, but I wasn’t about to schlepp a passed-out Miranda that distance. I hop out of the truck and open the back door. Miranda is still in exactly the same position I left her in, and I have to climb into the cabin to hoist her back into my arms and out of the truck. She doesn’t stir even as I jostle her around rather ungracefully. The moment I step out from behind the truck door with Miranda securely cradled in my arms, my grandma walks toward me.
“Ran, what are you doing? What happened?”
“Morai, can I just get Randi into the house really quick? I’ll explain in a minute.” I move around my grandmother, up the steps, and into the house.
She follows me through the living room and toward the staircase. “Ronan, where are you taking her?” she asks, slightly panicky.
“To bed, Morai. I’ll be right down, I promise,” I say, and climb the stairs to the second floor. I take Miranda to the first bedroom on the left—Steve’s room, the farthest from my own bedroom—where I deposit her, still fast asleep, on the bed. I pull off her boots and throw a blanket over her before closing the door behind me, then face my grandmother downstairs.
She’s standing, hands on her hips, looking at me expectantly. “Care to enlighten me?” she asks, tapping her foot on the hardwood floor.
“Randi needs a place to crash for a while.” I head back toward the front door so I can move the truck, then continue my work on the ranch.
“Ronan Perry Soult,” my grandmother says in a tone that’s all too familiar and makes my heart speed up. I stop and turn to her, my shoulders tense, wantonly triggered by the way she just spoke to me—exactly the way my mother did before she’d hurt me. My grandma must notice the anxiety in my body because her face softens, and she moves toward me to rest her hand on my forearm. “I love you, baby boy, but you’ll need to do better than that. What happened to Miranda?”
“I found her like that at Sterling’s,” I say. “Apparently her dad kicked her out two nights ago; she didn’t say what happened, but she’s been sleeping in her truck.”
“Ran, I know you have a history with that girl, but—”
“Morai, I know you don’t like her. I know you think she’s a bad influence on me and that she’s trouble. But just trust me when I tell you that there’s more to her story. A lot more.”
She looks at me doubtfully, her lips pressed together, brows furrowed.
“She’s a lot more like me than you know,” I say, hoping my grandmother will pick up on what I’m trying to convey without forcing me to disclose details Miranda wouldn’t be willing to share. “I can’t let her sleep in her truck. I’d feel like shit if something happened to her, and I know you would, too.”
She analyzes me for a few long moments, neither of us speaking. “Alright,” she sighs. “She can stay, but I won’t have her be drunk when she stays with us. And no shenanigans.” She wags her finger at me. “I’m going to have her stay in one of the guest cabins once she’s sobered up.”
I smile at her, then stoop to kiss her soft cheek. “Thanks, Morai,” I say, and head back out the door.